Chapter 38
Kaneko
The chamber was too quiet without Yoshi’s breathing.
I lay on his mat—our mat now—staring at the ceiling where shadows danced in the light cast by a single candle. My body still hummed with the memory of his touch, every nerve singing with the impossible joy of reunion.
A year of wondering, mourning, desperately hoping, all answered with his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, his voice breaking as he said my name like a prayer.
Finally, I was happy.
The realization washed over me like wonderfully warm water.
When had I last been happy? Not relieved, not temporarily safe, not distracted from misery, but truly happy?
Not since before the pirates. Before the fires. Before I learned what the world did to boys who loved too carelessly.
Here, in this modest monk’s chamber that smelled of incense and Yoshi, I was happy.
My body ached in the most wonderful way, marked by passion instead of violence.
The ghost of his touch lingered everywhere—in my hips where he’d gripped too tight, in my throat where he’d driven himself a little too quickly, in the tender soreness that reminded me with every movement that I was his, had always been his, would always be his.
Our reunion had been everything I’d dreamed and nothing I’d expected.
He was different now—stronger and more confident—but underneath, he was still Yoshi, still the boy who kissed like he was suffocating and I was air, still the one who looked at me like I was something precious, something worth crossing oceans for.
If he knew what you did, what you’ve become, would he still look at you that way?
The thought sliced through my joy like a poisoned blade.
My fingers found the scar on my ribs—the one from Sakurai’s training that Yoshi had traced earlier. There were others, too: marks on my wrists from rope work, a thin line on my inner thigh from a blade exercise gone wrong.
Each one a story I couldn’t tell.
My hands began to tremble.
I hadn’t told him about the House of Petals.
The realization sat heavy in my chest, crushing the lightness I’d been feeling.
The room suddenly felt even smaller, the walls pressing in as my thoughts spiraled.
In all our desperate haste to merge back into one perfect soul, all our frantic rediscovery, I hadn’t mentioned the geishas, the training, the men who’d sought to buy my attention, if not my body.
The performances.
The careful seductions that never went as far as clients wanted but still went too far for my own comfort. The scent of jasmine oil suddenly filled my nose—a phantom memory of the perfume they’d made me wear. It was too sweet, too heavy, designed to intoxicate clients before I even spoke.
Momoko’s calls during the Virgin Auction echoed in my mind: “A rare beauty from the islands, trained in all the arts of pleasure.”
I could still taste the bitter tea they’d given me, the one that made my muscles loose and my inhibitions quieter.
And how could I explain Haru’s protection?
That I’d been marked as the Prince’s exclusive companion—a polite way of saying his whore, even if Haru had never touched me in that way?
The entire temple probably thought I’d been warming the Prince’s bed for months, been wedged between him and Esumi like a slutty piece of meat.
The students who’d called me “Imperial whore” hadn’t been wrong, not really. That was exactly what everyone believed I was. It’s what Haru’s payment made me.
And Sakurai . . .
My stomach turned and my skin crawled with remembered touches. They were clinical, educational, and violating in their careful precision.
“Arch your back more.” His voice filled my memory, that detached professional tone that made it somehow worse than if he’d truly loved me. “Good. Now remember that angle. Clients appreciate the aesthetic.”
“Breathe through it. Your body knows what to do.”
“Stop thinking. This is mechanics, just flesh responding to touch.”
How could I tell Yoshi about Sakurai? About the intimacy training that had been forced on me, the lessons in pleasure I’d never wanted to learn?
They weren’t violent, never cruel, but a violation all the same.
They were still my body being taught responses I couldn’t control, being shown how to give and receive pleasure I never consented to offer or take.
My fingers traced the place on my hip where Sakurai would grip to adjust my position—always the same spot, sometimes until it bruised, until my body learned to move automatically at his touch.
Would Yoshi understand that I’d had no choice?
That refusal meant death or worse?
Or would he see me as soiled, another man’s leavings?
The way he’d touched me earlier, reverent and possessive, like I was still the same boy he’d loved in Tooi—would that change if he knew how many others had seen me perform?
How many had bid on my first night?
And those degradations weren’t even the worst of my secrets.
The vows I’d made burned in my mind. My vows to the shadows, to the Emperor himself. The blood on my hands from those I’d killed or helped kill in service to the throne. The network of spies and assassins I was now part of, bound by oaths that superseded everything else.
Even love. Even Yoshi.
If the shadows commanded me to leave tomorrow, I would have to go. If they ordered me to kill someone in this temple—one of his classmates, his uncle, even Prince Haru—I would have to obey. This reunion, this happiness, was allowed only as long as it served their purposes.
What would Yoshi say if he knew I belonged to something darker than he could imagine? That my first loyalty could never be to him, no matter how much I loved him? That I’d traded my freedom for the skills to survive, and now those skills owned me?
But did they have to?
The thought came so suddenly, so desperately.
What if I just . . . stopped?
What if I renounced the vows, walked away from the shadows, chose to be just Kaneko again? What if I was no longer a weapon, no more a spy, not the Emperor’s blade in the dark? Just a fisherman’s son who loved a Daimyo’s heir.
My heart raced at the possibility. I could tell them I was done, explain that I’d served well, helped protect the throne, but now I needed to be free. Others must have left the shadows before—surely some could retire after faithful service. There had to be a way to be released honorably.
The work was important, yes.
Protecting the Emperor, maintaining the divine balance that kept our world from chaos—I understood that. I believed in it, even, but couldn’t someone else carry that burden now? Hadn’t I given enough?
Yoshi and I could leave together, find some remote village where no one knew our names. I could fish, and Yoshi could . . . he could do anything. Teach. Farm. Live.
We could just live.
Without empires and rebellions and shadows binding us to purposes greater than ourselves.
The hope was so bright it hurt.
I sat up, energized by the possibility. Tomorrow, I’d find a way to contact them. I would send word through whatever channels they used, explain that I was grateful for the training, for the protection, for the honor of serving the throne, but that I’d found something worth more.
They’d understand.
They had to understand.
Then something glinted on the table.
The golden coin shimmered in the candlelight. I’d removed it from my pocket, annoyed at how it dug into my hip as I lay on my side. Now, it glared back, accusing, demanding.
The flame flickered wildly despite the still air, shadows dancing across the walls like living things. I imagined them reaching toward me with grasping fingers.
The coin glimmered, and the Emperor’s eyes emblazoned on its golden field glared.
It was a reminder of my vows.
Its message was clear.
You serve the Emperor, now and forever. Your vows stand. There is no walking away.
But I couldn’t lose Yoshi. Not again. Not when the universe had impossibly brought us back together. There had to be a way to balance both, to serve the shadows while still having this love.
The door slid open, and Yoshi slipped in, still glowing with meditation-induced peace. I reached over and snatched the coin from the table, shoving back into my pocket.
“You’re awake,” he said, smiling as he moved toward the mat, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, and my voice must have betrayed something because his smile faded.
“What’s wrong?” He settled beside me, his hand immediately finding mine. “Kaneko?”
I stared at him—this boy I’d loved since before I knew what the word meant, the one who’d somehow forgiven the universe enough to smile like that—and felt my heart tear in two.
I should tell him.
I couldn’t tell him.
I had to tell him.
It would destroy us.
But maybe it didn’t have to.
Maybe I could find a way to serve my vow and my heart.
“Nothing,” I lied, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like hope and fear intertwined. “Just thinking too much.”
He kissed me back, gentle and sweet, and I hated myself for every secret that sat between us like a blade waiting to drop.
“Don’t think,” he murmured against my lips. “Just be here. With me.”
So I tried. I pushed down the fears and doubts and let myself drown in his touch, in this stolen happiness that felt more fragile than glass. But in the darkness behind my closed eyes, I could see it all—the House of Petals, Sakurai’s clinical touch, the golden coin, the blood on my hands.
The truth that would eventually destroy us, whether I spoke it aloud or not.
For tonight, though, I chose silence. I chose his happiness over honesty. I chose to pretend we could have this, even though every shadow in the room reminded me that I belonged to the darkness now.
Because darkness always collected its debts.